Best Famous Ts Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Ts poems. This is a select list of the best famous Ts poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Ts poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of ts poems.

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• All Famous Ts Poems

Written by Billy Collins | Directions You know the brick path in the back of the house, the one you see from the kitchen window, the one that bends around the far end of the garden where all the yellow primroses are? And you know how if you leave the path and walk into the woods you come to a heap of rocks, probably pushed down during the horrors of the Ice Age, and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now against the light-brown fallen leaves? And farther on, you know the small footbridge with the broken railing and if you go beyond the you arrive at the bottom of sheep's head hill? Well, if you start climbing, and you might have to grab on to a sapling when the going gets steep, you will eventually come to a long stone ridge with a border of pine trees which is a high as you can go and a good enough place to stop. The best time for this is late afternoon en the sun strobes through the columns of trees as you are hiking up, and when you find an agreeable rock to sit on, you will be able to see the light pouring down into the woods and breaking into the shapes and tones of things and you will hear nothing but a sprig of a birdsong or leafy falling of a cone or t through the trees, and if this is your day you might even spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese driving overhead toward some destination. But it is hard to speak of these things how the voices of light enter the body and begin to recite their stories how the earth holds us painfully against ts breast made of humus and brambles how we will soon be gone regard the entities that continue to return greener than ever, spring water flowing through a meadow and the shadows of clouds passing over the hills and the ground where we stand in the tremble of thought taking the vast outside into ourselves. Still, let me know before you set out. Come knock on my door and I will walk with you as far as the garden with one hand on your shoulder. I will even watch after you and not turn back to the house until you disappear into the crowd of maple and ash, heading up toward the hill, percing the ground with your stick.

Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | St. Winefreds Well ACT I. SC. I Enter Teryth from riding, Winefred following. T. WHAT is it, Gwen, my girl? why do you hover and haunt me? W. You came by Caerwys, sir? T. I came by Caerwys. W. There Some messenger there might have met you from my uncle. T. Your uncle met the messenger—met me; and this the message: Lord Beuno comes to-night. W. To-night, sir! T. Soon, now: therefore Have all things ready in his room. W. There needs but little doing. T. Let what there needs be done. Stay! with him one companion, His deacon, Dirvan Warm: twice over must the welcome be, But both will share one cell. —This was good news, Gwenvrewi. W. Ah yes! T. Why, get thee gone then; tell thy mother I want her. Exit Winefred. No man has such a daughter. The fathers of the world Call no such maiden ‘mine’. The deeper grows her dearness And more and more times laces round and round my heart, The more some monstrous hand gropes with clammy fingers there, Tampering with those sweet bines, draws them out, strains them, strains them; Meantime some tongue cries ‘What, Teryth! what, thou poor fond father! How when this bloom, this honeysuckle, that rides the air so rich about thee, Is all, all sheared away, thus!’ Then I sweat for fear. Or else a funeral, and yet ’tis not a funeral, Some pageant which takes tears and I must foot with feeling that Alive or dead my girl is carried in it, endlessly Goes marching thro’ my mind. What sense is this? It has none. This is too much the father; nay the mother. Fanciful! I here forbid my thoughts to fool themselves with fears. Enter Gwenlo. . . . . . . . . ACT II. —Scene, a wood ending in a steep bank over a dry dene, Winefred having been murdered within. Re-enter Caradoc with a bloody sword. C. My heart, where have we been? What have we seen, my mind? What stroke has Caradoc’s right arm dealt? what done? Head of a rebel Struck off it has; written upon lovely limbs, In bloody letters, lessons of earnest, of revenge; Monuments of my earnest, records of my revenge, On one that went against me wh?reas I had warned her— Warned her! well she knew. I warned her of this work. What work? what harm ’s done? There is no harm done, none yet; Perhaps we struck no blow, Gwenvrewi lives perhaps; To makebelieve my mood was—mock. O I might think so But here, here is a workman from his day’s task sweats. Wiped I am sure this was; it seems not well; for still, Still the scarlet swings and dances on the blade. So be it. Thou steel, thou butcher, I c?n scour thee, fresh burnish thee, sheathe thee in thy dark lair; these drops Never, never, never in their blue banks again. The woeful, Cradock, O the woeful word! Then what, What have we seen? Her head, sheared from her shoulders, fall, And lapped in shining hair, roll to the bank’s edge; then Down the beetling banks, like water in waterfalls, It stooped and flashed and fell and ran like water away. Her eyes, oh and her eyes! In all her beauty, and sunlight to it is a pit, den, darkness, Foam-falling is not fresh to it, rainbow by it not beaming, In all her body, I say, no place was like her eyes, No piece matched those eyes kept most part much cast down But, being lifted, immortal, of immortal brightness. Several times I saw them, thrice or four times turning; Round and round they came and flashed towards heaven: O there, There they did appeal. Therefore airy vengeances Are afoot; heaven-vault fast purpling portends, and what first lightning Any instant falls means me. And I do not repent; I do not and I will not repent, not repent. The blame bear who aroused me. What I have done violent I have like a lion done, lionlike done, Honouring an uncontrolled royal wrathful nature, Mantling passion in a grandeur, crimson grandeur. Now be my pride then perfect, all one piece. Henceforth In a wide world of defiance Caradoc lives alone, Loyal to his own soul, laying his own law down, no law nor Lord now curb him for ever. O daring! O deep insight! What is virtue? Valour; only the heart valiant. And right? Only resolution; will, his will unwavering Who, like me, knowing his nature to the heart home, nature’s business, Despatches with no flinching. But will flesh, O can flesh Second this fiery strain? Not always; O no no! We cannot live this life out; sometimes we must weary And in this darksome world what comfort can I find? Down this darksome world c?mfort wh?re can I find When ’ts light I quenched; its rose, time’s one rich rose, my hand, By her bloom, fast by her fresh, her fleec?d bloom, Hideous dashed down, leaving earth a winter withering With no now, no Gwenvrewi. I must miss her most That might have spared her were it but for passion-sake. Yes, To hunger and not have, y?t hope ?n for, to storm and strive and Be at every assault fresh foiled, worse flung, deeper disappointed, The turmoil and the torment, it has, I swear, a sweetness, Keeps a kind of joy in it, a zest, an edge, an ecstasy, Next after sweet success. I am not left even this; I all my being have hacked in half with her neck: one part, Reason, selfdisposal, choice of better or worse way, Is corpse now, cannot change; my other self, this soul, Life’s quick, this k?nd, this k?en self-feeling, With dreadful distillation of thoughts sour as blood, Must all day long taste murder. What do n?w then? Do? Nay, Deed-bound I am; one deed treads all down here cramps all doing. What do? Not yield, Not hope, not pray; despair; ay, that: brazen despair out, Brave all, and take what comes—as here this rabble is come, Whose bloods I reck no more of, no more rank with hers Than sewers with sacred oils. Mankind, that mobs, comes. Come! Enter a crowd, among them Teryth, Gwenlo, Beuno. . . . . . . . . After Winefred’s raising from the dead and the breaking out of the fountain. BEUNO. O now while skies are blue, now while seas are salt, While rushy rains shall fall or brooks shall fleet from fountains, While sick men shall cast sighs, of sweet health all despairing, While blind men’s eyes shall thirst after daylight, draughts of daylight, Or deaf ears shall desire that lipmusic that ’s lost upon them, While cripples are, while lepers, dancers in dismal limb-dance, Fallers in dreadful frothpits, waterfearers wild, Stone, palsy, cancer, cough, lung wasting, womb not bearing, Rupture, running sores, what more? in brief; in burden, As long as men are mortal and God merciful, So long to this sweet spot, this leafy lean-over, This Dry Dene, now no longer dry nor dumb, but moist and musical With the uproll and the downcarol of day and night delivering Water, which keeps thy name, (for not in r?ck wr?tten, But in pale water, frail water, wild rash and reeling water, That will not wear a print, that will not stain a pen, Thy venerable record, virgin, is recorded). Here to this holy well shall pilgrimages be, And not from purple Wales only nor from elmy England, But from beyond seas, Erin, France and Flanders, everywhere, Pilgrims, still pilgrims, m?re p?lgrims, still more poor pilgrims. . . . . . . . . What sights shall be when some that swung, wretches, on crutches Their crutches shall cast from them, on heels of air departing, Or they go rich as roseleaves hence that loathsome c?me hither! Not now to n?me even Those dearer, more divine boons whose haven the heart is. . . . . . . . . As sure as what is most sure, sure as that spring primroses Shall new-dapple next year, sure as to-morrow morning, Amongst come-back-again things, th?ngs with a revival, things with a recovery, Thy name… . . . . . . . .

Written by Li Po | Chiang Chin Chiu See the waters of the Yellow River leap down from Heaven, Roll away to the deep sea and never turn again! See at the mirror in the High Hall Aged men bewailing white locks - In the morning, threads of silk, In the evening flakes of snow. Snatch the joys of life as they come and use them to the full; Do not leave the silver cup idly glinting at the moon. The things that Heaven made Man was meant to use; A thousand guilders scattered to the wind may come back again. Roast mutton and sliced beef will only taste well If you drink with them at one sitting three hundred cups. Great Master Ts'?en, Doctor Tan-ch'iu, Here is wine, do not stop drinking But listen, please, and I will sing you a song. Bells and drums and fine food, what are they to me Who only want to get drunk and never again be sober? The Saints and Sages of old times are all stock and still, Only the might drinkers of wine have left a name behind. When the prince of Ch'?en gave a feast in the Palace of P'ing-lo With twenty thousand gallons of wine he loosed mirth and play. The master of the feast must not cry that his money is all spent; Let him send to the tavern and fetch wine to keep our tankards filled. His five-flower horse and thousand-guilder coat - Let him call the boy to take them along and pawn them for good wine, That drinking together we may drive away the sorrows of a thousand years.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | BEIN' BACK HOME Home agin, an' home to stay— Yes, it's nice to be away. Plenty things to do an' see, But the old place seems to me Jest about the proper thing. Mebbe 'ts 'cause the mem'ries cling Closer 'round yore place o' birth 'N ary other spot on earth. W'y it's nice jest settin' here, Lookin' out an' seein' clear, 'Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze In these sweet October days. What's as good as that there lane, Kind o' browned from last night's rain? 'Pears like home has got the start When the goal's a feller's heart. What's as good as that there jay Screechin' up'ards towards the gray Skies? An' tell me, what's as fine As that full-leafed pumpkin vine? Tow'rin' buildin's—? yes, they're good; But in sight o' field and wood, Then a feller understan's 'Bout the house not made with han's. Let the others rant an' roam When they git away from home; Jest gi' me my old settee[Pg 260] An' my pipe beneath a tree; Sight o' medders green an' still, Now and then a gentle hill, Apple orchards, full o' fruit, Nigh a cider press to boot— That's the thing jest done up brown; D'want to be too nigh to town; Want to have the smells an' sights, An' the dreams o' long still nights, With the friends you used to know In the keerless long ago— Same old cronies, same old folks, Same old cider, same old jokes. Say, it's nice a-gittin' back, When yore pulse is growin' slack, An' yore breath begins to wheeze Like a fair-set valley breeze; Kind o' nice to set aroun' On the old familiar groun', Knowin' that when Death does come, That he'll find you right at home.

Written by Robert Herrick | AN ODE OF THE BIRTH OF OUR SAVIOUR In numbers, and but these few, I sing thy birth, oh JESU! Thou pretty Baby, born here, With sup'rabundant scorn here; Who for thy princely port here, Hadst for thy place Of birth, a base Out-stable for thy court here. Instead of neat enclosures Of interwoven osiers; Instead of fragrant posies Of daffadils and roses, Thy cradle, kingly stranger, As gospel tells, Was nothing else, But, here, a homely manger. But we with silks, not cruels, With sundry precious jewels, And lily-work will dress thee; And as we dispossess thee Of clo}ts, we'll make a chamber, Sweet babe, for thee, Of ivory, And plaster'd round with amber. The Jews, they did disdain thee; But we will entertain thee With glories to await here, Upon thy princely state here, And more for love than pity: From year to year We'll make thee, here, A free-born of our city.